misadventures in family, (in)fertility, and our future

Main menu

Post navigation

Drug Urine

I had a mock embryo transfer yesterday. I needed to have that done as the final piece of screening/testing before being approved for IVF Option B (which I am…approved that is!). It was fine, didn’t hurt (I was terrified it would be like my HSG experience, but it felt similar to an IUI), and showed a uterus clear of polyps or fibroids.

Before the test I had to pee in a cup to prove that I was, in fact, not pregnant (spoiler alert: I’m not pregnant). The theory is that if you ARE, the mock embryo transfer could cause a miscarriage.

When I was told I needed to provide a urine sample I had a mini internal panic attack because I had just peed. I thought I might be able to squeeze some out though, and went to the bathroom to Make My Attempt. Unfortunately, things had just gotten going in the old bladder department when someone tried to open the door. It was fine, I had locked the door, but the damage was done. My bladder instantly clenched up, and no amount of relaxation techniques was going to allow a single additional drop out. Maybe ketamine would have relaxed me enough. I’m not sure. I wasn’t offered any. (What the fuck am I paying them for again?)

I sat there in the bathroom with my pathetic dribble (seriously, there was like half a centimeter in the bottom of the cup) and just KNEW I couldn’t take that out of there. So here’s what I did, and I’m ashamed to admit it: I added water to my cup of urine. Ladies, let me tell you. You know you’ve hit a low point in life (and infertility) when you’re watering down your own urine to try to impress the lab technicians. I felt like some kid getting drug tested, trying to dilute my urine enough so that the pot/coke/whatever it is that kids do today wouldn’t show up.

And then, to make matters worse, I went out and confessed my crime to Tammy. I thought I had been quiet (I was whispering for God’s sake) but apparently another patient heard me. And Tammy only told me someone was listening hours and hours later, and then added that she was sitting there chuckling to herself. Even typing this out now I’m blushing uncomfortably. It’s bad enough that I cared enough about what the lab techs think to water down my own urine sample, but now other patients in the doctor’s office know! And I’m SURE that my nurse was told. Guys, I’m officially that patient.

Why didn’t I just take out the dribble that I had? Why did I think my self-worth was connected to how much urine I could produce, on demand? My thought process sometimes. I can’t even.